


sixteen

by mesoquatic



Category: Lizard Boy - Huertas
Genre: 16 hours of living, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, artist trevor, culinary student cary, hahhahahah, implied marriage, soft angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 04:50:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13942959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mesoquatic/pseuds/mesoquatic
Summary: A day together and apart.





	sixteen

Six in the morning was when the alarm would go off. Trevor would sit up long enough to turn it off before Cary would come along and drag him back into bed. It was routine, no matter what happened. Trevor never thought of changing his alarm to be later because then it would just delay the best thing about his morning. His coffee could wait, he had plans for cuddles in bed.

By seven, the coffee was made and both of them were out of bed early enough to watch some of the news before leaving for work; traffic, weather, events. Breakfast changed depending on whoever got up first and what they had in their fridge. This morning, for instance, Cary was the first one out of bed and, having the more experience cooking, make scrambled eggs and turkey bacon. He finished by the time Trevor was out.

When eight came around, Trevor was back in his office, hidden away from the world with wide open windows as he painted. The sounds of the city flooded his ears and the smell of the Puget Sound distracted him from his canvas every so often. Whether it was watercolors, acrylic, or oil paints, it made him happy. Even if he didn’t sell much and had to sacrifice some of the pay to the people who put his art in their shops, it was worth it.

Nine was when Cary’s shift at the Turkish restaurant downstairs started. He cleaned tables and got everything ready before people would be there for brunch. He wasn’t a cook but was a waiter and enjoyed it every second he was there. He didn’t speak Turkish and sometimes it sucked but he had picked up a few words here and there since he’s started.

At ten, the restaurant opened and Trevor was trapped in his work. No matter what smells came wafting in, it didn’t matter. Accidentally knocking over his water was the only thing that wouldn’t catch him off guard except for the occasional waft of weed from someone out in the courtyard.

Trevor would stop by eleven and start to actually get ready for the day. He’d get out of his art clothes and into something proper and cover as much of his skin as possible. His hood would go up and his mask would cover his mouth, nose, and most of his cheeks. He’d put his shoes on by eleven forty-five and be out the door just before noon.

By noon, the restaurant was well busy and Cary would be working away the time. During his down time, he’d work on his paper homework, though his down time usually didn’t last long. He’d smile if he saw Trevor walk by to get to the local Target, proud that he got out of the house without hassle. Luckily, he did it a lot more than staying cooped in all day.

At one, Trevor would have been done at Target and gone down to Pike Place Market to wander. He’d walk past the fish stands and wonder if he had enough money to splurge on a quarter pound or even a half pound for dinner tonight and a few future dinners. But, the thing that always got him, would be the fact that he didn’t know how to cook anything without microwaveable instructions.

Two would come along and Trevor would have gotten take out at the tiny Chinese place under the market before making his way back to the condo. He would put away all of the groceries in to the fridge as orderly as possible, knowing very well Cary would do a better job when he got home. After, he’d sit at the table and eat his takeout while watching daytime television.

Three marked the end of Cary’s shift, where he would go back to the condo for a meal and a few kisses from Trevor before starting his march to class. There, at his culinary school, he’d actually cook instead of just waiting tables all morning. He would sit in class and learn how long to cook something and so on while dreaming about the restaurant he would open; Filipino for Trevor.

Four in the afternoon left Trevor more time to work on his artwork. By now, it was either too cold or too warm to keep the windows open anymore. That or the smoke from the weed had swarmed their house and he had deemed it his mission to febreze every object in the house. Then he would be forced to open the windows again to escape the choking scent that was whatever crappy febreze scent was on sale.

Five was when Trevor would start attempting to make dinner if he wanted to even attempt. If not, he’d sit in his office for another hour and continue to draw or scroll through his computer. His time in college was long gone, but all that time spent working with journalism wasn’t wasted. He loved to read articles and he loved to write himself but it wasn’t the best option for him. With art, you could look like a freak and no one would care.

Six, when Cary came home, was usually the time when most panic attacks that Trevor has happened. Before Cary could get his keys to open their door, he could tell. The atmosphere would be different, colder, bluer, and way too much febreze. He’d open the door and Trevor would usually be curled up on their couch and would be watching some program, usually the news but sometimes a tv show would pop up. It wouldn’t matter at that point, what did was being able to sit there and hold Trevor as they mindlessly watched. He let Trevor cry it out until he felt better and encourage him just like he always did. He’d tell him that he loved him and that the ring on his finger wasn’t just one moment in life, it was forever.

Cary would usually start dinner by seven with Trevor right behind him. His arms would wrap around Cary’s waist and his face would press up against Cary’s shoulder. Trevor usually closed his eyes, letting the smells and sounds consume him. Art wasn’t only sight to him, it was everything. Perfume was art, music was art, paper was art, and it reminded him that it wasn’t just him that was creating something unique, so was everyone else.

By eight, Cary had either made a masterpiece of a meal or a disaster and ended up just calling for take-out to be deliver to their condo. They’d either sit at their table or their couch and just laugh along with the likes of ‘Whose Line Is It Anyway?’ reruns. Trevor was calm by then, enjoying life as much as he could, slightly more than the day before. He was recovering, slowly but surely, and Cary was proud of him every second.

When nine came, Trevor would be back into his office again with his door open. Cary would sit at the table and work on homework on paper, on his computer, and in the kitchen. Every so often, one would catch the attention of the other and he would stare for minutes on end before the other noticed. It was pleasant, smelling just slightly of febreze with the soft jazz playing over the radio. It was the only thing they could agree on and both of them had to grow to learn it anyway.

Ten found the both of them back in bed after taking showers and shaving. That time was always fun for the both of them, letting them throw toothpaste or shaving cream at the other without getting mad. Only giggling was allowed as they worked. Sometimes Cary would miss a spot shaving and Trevor would fix it for him before going back to his own face. The worst that had ever happened was Cary tripping over the barrier of the shower and Trevor almost choking on a toothbrush. Long story.

And they’d both be ready to wake up at the sound of Trevor’s alarm in the morning.


End file.
